In My Time of Dying
by TurnSmileShiftRepeat
Summary: Faking your own death is easy - especially with MI6 offering a helping hand. Maintaining the illusion proves a little more complicated. AU - Alex is, and always has been, a girl.
1. How To Be Dead

They'd told him never to contact her – she had to believe he was dead. That was their only condition, and he knew how serious the retribution would be if he failed to stick to the deal. So he never contacted her. Not once.

He tried to avoid London, and MI6 sometimes gave him a heads-up if she was on a mission, keen to prevent chance encounters. But London was a hard place to avoid in his line of work, and MI6 were not always as thorough in their preparations as they wanted him to believe. He saw her five times after his "death".

x x x x x x x x x x x x x x x x x x x x x x x x x x x x x x x x x

The first was the day after. He was at Liverpool Street, finalising the agreement with Mrs. Jones and collecting the travel documents and money they'd promised him in return for his cooperation. She'd stormed into the building unannounced, demanding to see Blunt and Jones. He found out later that she'd discharged herself from hospital and managed to "lose" the agent assigned to keep an eye on her. When Alex Rider wanted something, there was little that could stand in her way.

There'd been no time for an exit avoiding her, and so they'd hustled him into a hidden room adjoining the main office. It had a discrete two-way mirror that even he'd never noticed. So he watched as she burst through the door, with a bruised face and bandaged wrist, and marched towards the desk, behind which sat Jones and Blunt, observing her calmly.

"Why didn't you tell me?"

"Tell you what?"

"That you gave him a fucking _bomb_! This is all your fault. He's…" she faltered.

"Sit down, Alex."

She sat, looking suddenly young, and tired, and utterly defeated.

"We gave him a bomb, Alex, because we _all_ wanted to destroy Scorpia completely, and it was the only way to be absolutely certain of success. We didn't tell you because, well, we know how you feel about killing. We didn't want you involved." Jones paused. "We believe there was some kind of malfunction. Very unfortunate, but…"

Alex's jaw clenched.

"Unfortunate?" Her voice was quiet, but full of rage, and her eyes brimmed with tears, which she blinked back. "That's all you've got to say? Unfortunate?"

Jones, for once, seemed speechless.

Alex stood.

"I'm finished with this now. I don't ever want to see you again. You can do what you want about that, but I'm going home." She turned and left.

From behind the glass, he watched her walk out of his life. If everything went according to MI6's plan, he would never see her again.

He sat down, opposite Jones. She continued to explain the parameters of their agreement; the unspoken threats clear in her voice. He surveyed her calmly. She finished. Their meeting was over, and it was time for him to leave.

"There's a car waiting outside. It will take you to Heathrow. Get on a plane, and don't come back." Jones gave him a final glance before turning away to her computer.

He didn't leave.

"You're scared of her." It was a statement, not a question, and Jones' head snapped up.

"What?"

"You're scared of her. Scared of what she might become."

Jones looked at him for a long moment, her eyes searching for something. He wasn't sure if she found it, but she replied.

"Yes. Aren't you?"

He nodded, in understanding rather than affirmation, and left.

Maybe they were right. Maybe it was for the best. That night he got on a plane to Moscow, and to a new life.


	2. Trading Air

The second time was two months later. He was in a nightclub in Berlin, waiting to meet a contact. It was a small deal, drugs smuggling, something he disliked and was over-qualified for, but things had been…difficult, since Scorpia. He had sold out and destroyed his previous employers, which didn't exactly inspire confidence in potential associates. Even those that had gained from Scorpia's demise distrusted him, as it was common knowledge that he had collaborated with MI6. All he could do was take any jobs offered, and try and build up a better reputation.

It would take time, a fact he repeated to himself as he leaned on the bar, waiting for his contact, eyes constantly scanning the crowd. That was when he spotted her, weaving through the mob, thankfully not headed in his direction. Her face was serious, and her movements purposeful. She was on a mission. He glanced over the figures in her path, trying to work out what she was doing. She approached a man and whispered in his ear. He grinned, leering at her. She smiled back. The man turned, and David caught a glimpse of his face. _Shit_. His contact, Dimitri. A drug dealer and trafficker, supplying most of Berlin. Not a pleasant person. MI6 must have been on to him. Either they hoped he would lead them to bigger fish, or he'd been hitting above his weight, possibly smuggling into the UK. It didn't matter. MI6 didn't know David was involved, or they would not have sent Alex. He would cut his losses and leave. The deal wasn't worth much anyway. He watched as Alex and Dimitri headed towards the side exit. It led into an alleyway outside. Intrigued, and, he had to admit, a little concerned, he headed outside too, climbing the fire escape to access the roof of the building, giving him a view down into the alley. Alex and Dimitri stood facing each other.

"50 euros," grunted Dimitri. Alex handed over a handful of notes, and he gave her a small packet filled with white powder. Cocaine.

"Thanks," said Alex, her German accent perfect.

"You want more, you come to Dimitri. I only sell the best. Tell your friends."

"Actually, I wanted to talk to you about that." She looked a little nervous, although David knew she probably wasn't. Playing up her youth and appearing naïve and scared lulled her opponents into a false sense of security, and fitted well with her cover. She took a deep breath.

"A lot of my friends at school are interested in…buying…and I wondered if, maybe, I could buy stuff off you, and sell it to them? Or something?"

Dimitri smiled.

"I have a meeting now. Take my number. Phone me when you want more - perhaps we can come to some kind of arrangement." He handed her a card before turning away and walking back into the club.

As soon as he'd gone, her entire demeanour changed. Her shoulders relaxed and her back straightened. She stood taller, and the look of insecurity was gone from her face. Glancing at the card in her hand, she pulled out a mobile phone, typing in a short sequence of numbers. Holding the phone to her ear, she began to walk away. David caught the beginning of her conversation with person on the other end of the line.

"Hello? It's Alex. I've got the number…yeah. Easy. That's all you need, right? Only my English coursework's due in on Monday and I'd like to have _something_ to hand in for once…"

Her voice dwindled as she disappeared from sight. David grinned to himself. She hadn't changed. He climbed down from the roof and wandered off into the night, in the opposite direction to the one Alex had headed in. Dimitri would be waiting for him inside, but it didn't matter. The deal wasn't worth the risk of getting tangled up with MI6 again.


	3. The Bones Of You

_It was stupid, she knew, but she was sure she'd seen him again. Just a face in a crowd in a Berlin nightclub, but she'd been so sure it was him. She'd been sure before though, in the weeks following…well anyway, it was just her imagination playing tricks. _

_Immediately after his death, she'd seen him everywhere. Strangers walking by, people on the tube, even shop assistants. She'd seen him reflected in windows and mirrors, seen him behind the wheels of cars racing past her in the street. Eventually she'd agreed to see the psychologist MI6 had lined up for her, and together they'd decided it was PTSD. For a while, she still saw him. Then she was just constantly reminded of him. Phrases, accents, once even someone's handwriting, all jerked her back in time. But in time, that stopped too. She still thought about him, but not constantly._

_For about a month now, all that had been left of her 'symptoms' was the nightmare. The same one, every night, since _that_ night. All the sleeping pills and antidepressants MI6 had handed her had been unable to prevent the same scene from playing out in her subconscious every time she fell asleep. She expected it now, and was prepared to wake up screaming in the middle of the night. It was the _realness_ of the dream that upset her every time. It forced her to relive every second of that night in painful detail – the way his hand felt around hers, the expression on his face as he turned away from her for the last time, the force of the explosion, the heat of the flames, the feeling of helplessness. It brought back, every night, the knowledge that she should not have gone on ahead, even though he'd told her to. She should have stayed, because at least that way they would have been together._

_And now she was seeing things again. It was probably just someone who looked like him, a similar height, the same fair hair, but she'd been so _certain_. She pushed it out of her mind. She'd see the psychologist again, when she got home. _


	4. White Blank Page

The third time was in London. Despite himself, he'd ended up back in the city, following a lead. It was swiftly turning into a wild goose chase, and he was starting to believe that the person he was searching for couldn't, or wouldn't, be found.

He was on the tube, making his way from Bond Street to Oxford Circus. As the train ground to a halt he glanced over the crowd waiting to get onboard. And there she was, wearing a grey skirt with a shirt and tie. School uniform, he supposed. It was odd to think of her going to school, being a part of something normal, when the rest of her life was anything but.

He was gripped with panic momentarily, but composed himself. The platform was packed, as was the train. He could easily leave without her noticing. It would, he realised, be just as easy to brush her shoulder, catch her arm as he passed. MI6 would never have to know, and even if they did, he was prepared for any possible retaliation now. But it wasn't MI6 that scared him anymore. It had been three months, and he was fairly certain Alex wouldn't take this new betrayal, this breach of trust, particularly well. The idea of her being angry with him bothered him more than he would like it to.

And so, when the doors slid open, he placed himself in the centre of the crowd surging out, head down, eyes on the ground. In a few seconds, the train was gone, and so was she.

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

Strangely, the incident on the underground made Alex feel better about the fact she was sitting in a psychologist's office. A full month after Berlin, she had been beginning to doubt that she even needed the help. She still had the nightmare every time she fell asleep, but it was becoming… _normal_. And it wasn't as if she hadn't had nightmares about previous missions. This one just cut deeper. But seeing him again, getting off the tube at Oxford Circus of all places, had convinced her that she _needed_ to be talking to someone about this. Jack, at least, would be pleased if she kept seeing the psychologist. Alex knew she hadn't been the most fun to live with over the past three months.

"I think we ought to talk about the nightmare, Alex."

Alex looked up. She'd been off in her own little world, thinking about David and Jack and whether this meant crazy. Her psychologist looked at her expectantly, but she didn't know what to say to him.

"How does it begin?" he asked, and Alex realised she'd never actually described it to anyone. Not even to Jack, who woke her from the midst of it and hugged her until the shaking stopped, night after night.

"We're running. Through the – down a corridor, at Malagosto. That's how it starts."

"You and David?"

"Yes. He grabs my hand and pulls me to a door, and tells me to go on ahead because there's something he has to do, and he'll catch up."

"And then?"

Alex studied the floor, and her shoes. Black, for school, and flat just in case she needed to –

"Alex? What happens next?"

She didn't want to tell him. It was bad enough reliving it night after night, without having to explain to this man what she had done. What she had failed to do.

"I go through the door. I carry on running, without him."

"I see."

_No you don't,_ thought Alex. _He told me to go on without him, and I listened because I'm an _idiot_, and I thought he'd be right behind me…_

"Alex? What happens after that?"

"There's an explosion. It knocks me off my feet. The whole – the whole building is burning, and I try to run back inside to – to find him…"

"You _try_ to run into the fire? What stops you?"

"Someone grabs me from behind, pulls me away."

"Who?"

Alex knew full well who it had been. Ben Daniels, part of the team sent to extract them. But in the dream…

"I don't see their face. They pull me away, and then I wake up."

"I see."

_No you don't._


	5. Junk Of The Hearts

It was supposed to be a routine mission, simpler and less risky than what MI6 normally had her do – she had turned eighteen the week before, and in a few short months she would complete her A-levels, ready to be officially recruited. She was, in all honesty, a little pissed off that MI6 had her in the field, working for free, when in a couple of months she would be getting paid (imagine!) for her troubles.

A simple extraction, Mrs. Jones had said. Dimitri, the Berlin drug dealer, had been a gateway, inadvertently allowing MI6 to trace his deals back to the organisation supplying him and a network of dealers across Europe. Unpleasant people, but certainly nothing compared to Scorpia. MI6 had sent in a rookie agent who'd managed to get caught, and so they'd sent in Alex as a one-girl extraction team. Her cover was flawless – a Colombian heiress looking to export ready-processed cocaine, in need of a buyer. Her Spanish was perfect, and so far, no one seemed at all suspicious. Possibly because of the private jet loaded with cocaine she'd turned up in.

Niko, their Head of Security, with whom she was flirting outrageously, was giving her a tour of the organisation's head quarters, a mansion in Croatia. She knew she needed to get to the attic rooms, the old servants' quarters, which MI6 believed were now being used as interrogation rooms, and were thus the likely location of their agent.

Niko opened the door to yet another Baroque-styled drawing room, and she sighed. He turned to look at her.

"Is this boring you?" he asked, frowning.

"Well… it's beautiful. But I came here to do business, and all I've seen is an old house. How do I know your organisation can look after my business interests? What if someone betrays you? I need to know I can trust you to keep things secure while I'm back in Colombia."

She was pushing it, and she knew it. If he thought the request was suspicious he wouldn't show her the attic, and this was her only chance to get to the agent. She leaned closer to him, aware that the black dress she was wearing wasn't exactly subtle thanks to its plunging neckline.

"I _can_ trust you, can't I, Niko?"

He swallowed. "Yes." He paused. "Yes. You're worried about traitors?"

_Thank God. He bought it._

Ten minutes later, Niko was leading her up to the top floor of the mansion. They exited the stairs, and Alex found herself looking down a narrow corridor, with maybe ten rooms leading off it. The ceiling was lower here, and clearly whoever had restored the main body of the house in flamboyant Baroque style had not bothered with this floor. Niko dismissed the solitary guard. Clearly not all ten rooms were occupied, if security was this low.

"We keep traitors here. Do you want to see? It may be… unpleasant." There was something of a challenge in his tone.

Alex looked him in the eye, and remembered her cover. A drug-dealing Colombian heiress. She would have seen her fair share of unpleasantness.

"Yes. Show me."

Niko approached the first door on his left, pulled a bunch of keys from his pocket, unlocked it, and entered, holding the door open for her to follow him.

The room was cold and stark, with a bare concrete floor and whitewashed walls. Both the floor and walls were spattered with blood, some old and faded, some worryingly fresh. A chair stood in the middle of the room, bolted to the floor. A young man was slumped in it, his wrists handcuffed to the chair's arms.

Alex stood, taking in the scene before her, and attempting to keep her expression free of emotion, acutely aware that Niko's eyes were fixed on her face.

"I warned you it might be unpleasant. But this is what we must do if we find a traitor in our midst. It allows us to ensure the security of your stock, as well as our own safety from the authorities." He was grinning again.

Alex tamped down her emotions, which were threatening to overwhelm her.

_Breathe. Just breathe._

She forced a smile onto her face.

"This appears… satisfactory. Evidently your security is adequate."

Niko nodded, and moved to shepherd her out of the cell. She held up her hand.

"Just a minute, Niko. What did this man do?"

"We believed he was a threat to security. It emerged he had links with the British security services."

"I see. What will you do with him? I assume you have extracted as much information as possible?"

"Yes. He is no longer of any use. He will be shot." Niko looked disturbingly pleased at the thought.

"I should hope so. This," she gestured at the room, "is all very impressive, but I worry that you lack conviction. It is very important to me that your security is flawless. I should not like to think that traitors might be allowed to live."

Niko looked confused. "You wish to see… proof, of this?"

Alex nodded, pushing away the doubts. She was taking a huge risk, but the game had changed as soon as she'd entered the room and she had to go with it.

_Don't think. Focus on the job_.

Niko shrugged. "It makes no difference to me."

He moved away from the door, into the room, and drew the handgun from the holster at his waist, aiming at the man in the chair, who simply stared at him in silence.

Before he could pull the trigger, Alex lunged forward, her right hand closing over the gun's barrel, at the same time as her left elbow slammed backwards into Niko's face. His nose broke with a sickening crack, and he dropped to his knees, hands trying to stem the flow of blood coming from his nostrils. Alex spun round, leveling the gun at him.

"Keys. Now."

Eyes on the gun, Niko slid the bunch of keys across the floor towards her.

"Thanks for the tour. Fascinating." She flipped the pistol round in her hand and lashed out, striking Niko hard across the temple with it. He slumped sideways, unconscious.

Alex turned to face the prisoner, whose eyes met hers for the first time since she'd entered the room.

"I think the two of us need to have a little chat, don't we, David?"


	6. Nobody Move, Nobody Get Hurt

The fourth time was when everything began to unravel. He wasn't even supposed to be there – the lead he'd been following months ago in London had finally paid off, and he was _so close_ to finding the person he was searching for. But he hadn't been able to resist what had looked, on the surface, to be a simple drug running operation. It had, of course, quickly turned to shit, and he'd spent three days handcuffed to a chair in an attic having seven bells knocked out of him by that smarmy head of security.

Needless to say, when Alex walked in in a tight black dress, high heels and too much eyeliner he assumed he was dreaming, or hallucinating, or something. He was certain, in fact, right up until she looked him in the eye and said,

"I think the two of us need to have a little chat, don't we, David?"

Her tone was cold, and he could tell she was angry. Angrier than he'd ever seen her before. Her mouth was set in a straight line and her eyes looked oddly empty, and he knew that if he had been dreaming he wouldn't have made her so… scary.

"You see," she continued, "I was under the impression that you were dead. So unless you've been chilling out in an attic in Croatia for the past six months, which, to be honest, seems pretty unlikely, you have a _shitload_ of explaining to do."

David was suddenly very aware that she was still holding Niko's gun.

"Look," he said, speaking softly in an effort to calm her down, "we need to talk, you're right, but I'm not sure that this is the best-"

"Do you have any _idea_ the crap I've been through since you died?" she hissed. "I've been going to a fucking _psychologist_ twice a week because I thought it was my fault, and I kept _seeing_ you everywhere and – _holy shit._"

She paused, realization flooding her face.

"I actually _did_ keep seeing you, didn't I?"

He sighed.

"Maybe twice, okay? It wasn't intentional and I didn't think you saw me, otherwise I would've-"

"Jesus Christ," she muttered, and shut her eyes briefly, shaking her head.

"Look, Alex. We definitely need to talk about this, okay? I owe you an explanation, at least."

David shook his head as Alex opened her mouth to counter him and continued,

"But right now, we need to get out of here, or they _will_ kill us both. I assume you're here for the British operative in the next room?"

She exhaled, composing herself, then nodded, already back on task and reaching for the bunch of keys lying on the floor next to her. She passed them through her fingers until she hit upon one the right size to fit his handcuffs, and briskly unlocked them.

"Let's go," she said, heading out of the door. He stood, rubbing feeling back into his wrists, and followed her, his legs stiff from days without moving.

After checking that the corridor was clear, she turned back to him.

"Blunt and Jones were in on this, weren't they? They're the only ones that could have covered it up, after the fire."

He nodded.

"So I'm guessing that if I meet the extraction team with you in tow, things are going to go south pretty quickly for everyone."

"That just about sums it up."

Alex hesitated for a second, then pressed the gun into his hand and pulled a set of keys from a pocket at her hip.

"You know how to pilot a Cessna, right?"

"It's been a while, but yeah."

She handed him the keys.

"Then go. It's east of the house. Security seemed pretty low on the way up here; you should be okay. We've got a helicopter pulling us off the roof in about five minutes," she said, glancing at her watch.

"Alex, when I said I wanted to explain, I meant it."

"I know. But I've got a job to do right now and I can't handle all of this as well. It's just – it's too much. Come and find me, when I'm back in London, and… we'll talk."

David nodded, and she began to turn away from him. He caught her arm, brought her back round to face him.

"I never stopped – it wasn't that I didn't -"

"Don't." Her eyes met his. "I'm really glad you're alive. But I really fucking _hate_ you right now."

He pulled his hand away as if stung.

"I guess I deserve that."

"You know what? You really, _really_ do. But since you're alive you may as well stay that way, so piss off before the other guard comes back."

He half-smiled.

"You haven't changed."

Alex shook her head and replied,

"Neither have you. You're still a massive pain in the arse. Now jog on."

By now, she was nearly smiling too. David turned and headed for the stairs, looking back over his shoulder as he reached the end of the corridor. Alex was already unlocking the door to the lost agent's cell, but looked up to meet his eyes. David grinned.

"London. In a couple of months. I'll find you, Alex Rider."

He walked away, and Alex stared at the lock in front of her for a second.

"You'd better," she muttered, took a deep breath, then pushed open the door and strolled into the cell, grinning at the startled looking man who occupied it.

"Agent Smith, I presume? My name's Alex Rider, and I'll be saving your arse today."


	7. Sympathy For The Devil

The fifth time was in London, two months after the Croatia fiasco. The bar was packed and noisy, but he'd spotted Alex fairly quickly. She was part of a large group of teenagers, crowded onto a group of sofas at the edge of the dance floor. They were laughing and joking, and the table in front of them was covered in empty champagne bottles. He remembered, belatedly, that she would just have finished her A levels. This must be a post exam celebration. He wandered a little closer, observing her without being noticed. She looked happy. She deserved a few more moments of normalcy before he made himself known. He was close enough now to overhear the conversation she was having with a couple of other girls.

A dark-haired girl was shaking her head.

"I screwed up massively on that last History paper. Seriously, I'm fucked."

Alex laughed.

"You are not! I mean, what did you get on the mock? 82%? If you've failed then God knows how I've done!"

A third girl held up her hand out to stop her.

"Oh, whatever, Alex. Your results don't even matter, you're sorted. I don't know why you even bothered turning up for the exams, I wouldn't have."

The dark-haired girl jumped in.

"Yeah, Lex, not all of us can walk straight into cushy jobs in The City with a family friend. You're so _lucky_."

Alex's smile became a little strained.

"Yeah. I guess I am pretty lucky."

She frowned.

"I need another drink, anyone want anything?"

The two girls shook their heads, and Alex grabbed her bag, stood up, and headed for the bar. David followed. She reached the bar, and lent her elbows on it, waiting for the barman to get to her. David stood next to her, mimicking her stance. She glanced sideways at him and smiled.

"You're not very stealthy, you know. I spotted you ten minutes ago. Fancy a drink?"

"I think I probably owe you one," he replied.

She nodded.

"That's an understatement."

He opened his mouth to respond, but was interrupted by the dark-haired girl Alex had been speaking to earlier, who rushed up and grabbed Alex's elbow.

"Alex! Kirsty's getting a Jager-train for everyone! Come on!"

She paused, seeming to notice David for the first time, and looked him up and down appreciatively before turning back to Alex, grinning.

"Bring your friend!" She winked, non-too subtly, before turning and heading back to the sofas, where a blond girl was lining up glasses of Red Bull and balancing Jager shots between them.

Alex turned back to David and sighed.

"Fancy going somewhere a bit quieter?"

"What about the Jager-train? Sounds too good to miss."

She shook her head, laughing.

"Come on."

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

They stepped outside into the mild June night, Alex shrugging a leather jacket over her bare shoulders.

"So, where to?" David asked, arm already out to hail a taxi.

"Oh, God, anywhere. As long as it's quiet and there's gin."

"The bar at my hotel looked ok. That alright with you?"

"Yeah, whatever." She shook her head to clear the slight alcohol induced haze.

"No. Wait." She put her hand on his arm, pulling him to face her.

"How is it ok for you to be here? MI6 aren't exactly lax when it comes to surveillance. They'll have you for this."

"It's fine. I've got it sorted."

A taxi pulled up beside them, and David opened the door and gestured for Alex to get in. She paused before climbing in, looking up at him over the taxi door.

"You'd better have a bloody good explanation for all of this."

"Oh, I do. I really do."

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

David's hotel was expensive but low-key, and the bar was quiet, allowing them to choose a secluded corner to talk in. They sat opposite each other, and Alex stared at him in silence over her gin and tonic.

"So," he said, if only to break the silence, which was becoming awkward, "what do you want to know."

She studied his face for a moment, appearing to weigh up her options, then sighed.

"Look. I know what happened. I did my research when I got back from Croatia and-"

"Wait, how did you get hold of that kind of information?"

She leaned towards him, as if she was about to impart a profound secret, and whispered,

"I'm a _spy_."

He grinned.

"Fine. Sorry."

"Anyway, I know what went down. I just don't get _why_."

He looked down, organising his thoughts, wanting to word it correctly. When he looked back up, Alex's eyes were fixed on his face.

"I didn't want to do it."

"Well, you did, so that's beside the point."

He nodded, and continued.

"MI6 felt our relationship was… inappropriate. You'd already nearly defected to Scorpia once, and I guess they thought I was a bad influence. So once I'd outlived my usefulness, and we'd brought down Scorpia, I had to disappear."

"Why didn't they just recruit you?"

"You'd have to ask them. They made it pretty clear that either I faked my own death, or they'd do it for me, so to speak."

"Ok."

"What?"

"Ok. You're forgiven."

"Just like that? Are you kidding?"

He'd expected anger, rage – some of that patented Alex Rider righteous indignation. He got nothing. Alex ran a hand through her hair and elaborated.

"Look. I'm, like, the world record holder for being manipulated by the security services. I'm hardly in a position to judge others. You did a shitty thing. But I've done some pretty awful things too, in my time, so let's just move on. Besides, you haven't finished explaining."

"What else is there to explain?"

"Why is it suddenly absolutely fine for you to be here? It's been, what, almost a year? What's changed?"

David looked down at the tumbler of whiskey in front of him, shifted it in his hands so that ice cubes span. He hadn't wanted to tell her this. Not yet. But he needed her to trust him, and she would _know_ if he was lying. So he told the truth.

"I can't tell you."

Alex leant back in her chair and folded her arms, exasperated.

"Look, all I can tell you is that I've got the support of someone MI6 really can't afford to piss off. So, right now, I'm untouchable. As long as I don't do anything too extreme."

Alex nodded, and he could practically _see_ her trying to work out who his anonymous backer might be. She hit upon something, and a look of disgust crossed her face.

"Oh God. It's not, like, the FSB or something, is it?"

"No. God, no. But I can't tell you."

"Are you ever going to be able to tell me?"

"Yeah. Someday."

She shook her head, then laughed. David frowned.

"What's so funny?"

"Us. God, did you ever think it'd turn out like this? I'm signing a full-time contract with MI6 in the morning, and you're an – an international man of mystery or something. I don't know. I just thought we'd both be out of it by now."

"Yeah. So did I. But here we are."

Alex nodded soberly.

"Well. Here's to us."

She held up her drink, and he tapped his glass to hers before downing what was left. She smiled at him over her now-empty glass, but then her gaze slipped past him. He turned to see three men in suits enter the bar and stand, arms folded, at the doorway.

Alex sighed, put her glass down, and stood to leave.

"That's my cue. Maybe I'll see you around."

"You will."

"Good."

She leant down and whispered in his ear, so close that he could feel her warm breath on his skin.

"Wanna really piss them off?"

He opened his mouth to reply, but was cut off by Alex pressing her lips against his. She tasted of gin and lime, but pulled away so quickly that he was left uncertain that the kiss had even happened. She winked.

"See you around then."

He watched her walk towards the three operatives waiting for her at the door, one of whom greeted her with a raised eyebrow and an amused smile, prompting her to laugh and slap his shoulder, saying,

"There's no need to stare, Ben."

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

That was the fifth time he saw her after his 'death'. It wasn't the last, but it _was_ the point at which he stopped keeping count.


	8. Holding Out For A Hero

Alex finally left Blunt's office at 3am, after around an hour of arguing, negotiating and thinly veiled threats that had only ended when she promised 'never to see _that boy_ again'.

She headed for the taxi rank at the end of the road, pulling a mobile phone out of her bag as she walked. It was her private phone, purchased for her by Tom Harris and registered in his name. As far as she knew, MI6 weren't monitoring its use, and she used it very rarely, maintaining the illusion that her other phone was her only one.

A bleary-sounding Tom picked up on the fifth ring.

"Alex? Where'd you disappear off to?"

"An old friend showed up."

"Uh huh. The tall handsome one all the girls were gossiping about, I assume?"

"Yeah. It was David."

She could practically _hear_ Tom raise his eyebrows.

"Wow. So he actually showed up? Where'd you go?"

"Just went and got a drink. Then we were rudely interrupted by MI6."

"Ah. Security services salted your game, huh?"

"As always. Just got out of a nice long chat with Blunt and Jones. I'm not allowed to see him again."

"So now you want to see him even more."

"How'd you guess?"

"Footloose."

Alex blinked. Years of friendship meant that she could normally follow Tom's random tangents, but every now and then, he stumped her.

"You've lost me."

"Ok, so you're the girl, right? And MI6 is your overbearing, reverend Dad. And David's Kevin Bacon."

"Oh. Of _course_, David's Kevin Bacon. How did I not see this?"

"Shut up. The religious Dad bans his daughter from dancing with Kevin Bacon, which just makes her want to dance with him _even more_."

"Have you thought of writing a book? Seriously - your psychological insights _blow my mind_."

"Thank you." Tom sounded genuinely pleased with himself. Alex reminded herself that it was 3 o'clock in the morning, and she probably shouldn't expect too much.

"So, Tom?"

"Yeah?"

"If this whole situation is Footloose, does that make _you_ Sarah Jessica Parker?"

Tom laughed.

"You know me so well. See you tomorrow, bitch."

"Arsehole."

Alex hung up, grinning, and climbed into a taxi.


	9. Rolling In The Deep

She wouldn't see Tom the next day. After what had felt like five minutes of sleep, but her clock told her had been three hours, the phone rang. By 8am she was on a flight to Guatemala.

Blunt and Jones seemed to have hit upon an idea – keeping her away from David would be easy provided she didn't stay in the same country for more than a week. What followed was around two months of back-to-back assignments. Small things, mostly – stealing data packets, brief surveillance jobs, heading up security details at conferences.

MI6 were well within their rights. She was their employee, doing the job they paid her to do. She even got the odd day off between jobs – but was never allowed to return to the UK. Her 'free days' were always spent in minor European cities, with a sheepish-looking Ben Daniels who 'just happened' to have a very similar schedule and nothing better to do. They'd wander foreign streets, visit tourist hotspots, head to bars in the evening, both pretending that he wasn't a chaperone assigned by their employers. To his credit, he never lied about it, and Alex knew that if she asked him point blank he'd tell her exactly why he was there. So she didn't ask him. They talked about inconsequential things – rugby, Tarantino films, The Beatles versus The Stones. He was careful never to mention her friends back home, and she was careful never to ask when her semi-exile would end. He'd leave her at her hotel and tell her to look after herself, like he always did. The next morning she'd be on a charter flight to another assignment.

And everything was fine, until it all went tits up in Uzbekistan.

She was supposed to be doing basic surveillance on suspected people traffickers, a classic trench coat and binoculars job. But when one of the men slapped a skinny-looking teenage girl around the face, knocking her off her feet, then began kicking her as she lay on the ground, Alex found herself stepping in without thinking, and, crucially, before checking exactly how many men there were.

It had been an utter disaster, one she'd had plenty of time to reflect upon in the two days she'd spent handcuffed to a radiator in the basement of what she assumed was one of the group's brothels. She knew she'd made a stupid, emotion-driven decision, and it was one she liked to think she wouldn't have made if she'd had more down time between missions.

Unfortunately, no amount of excuses for her actions would help her now. Her nose was bleeding, and she tilted her head forward to try and stop the blood from running down the back of her throat. But it made no difference – her mouth filled with blood anyway, and she realised belatedly that the last beating had knocked one of her teeth loose. She spat blood onto the floor beside her, and inspected the handcuffs for what was probably the millionth time. She had nothing to pick the locks with, and the radiator was sturdy, fixed firmly to the wall. The evening of the first day had been spent trying to slide her hands through the cuffs, but this had just led to deep grazes that started at her wrists and ran almost up to her knuckles. She coughed – then winced in pain as the spasm jolted her cracked ribs.

She was going to die in this basement. She'd started to think that as dawn broke on the second day, and in the eight hours that had passed she had only grown more sure of it. These guys didn't want anything from her – they weren't interested in getting information. They were just entertaining themselves, and when they got bored, they'd kill her. And there was no way out.

If MI6 had been coming to her rescue, they would have been here by now. The delay meant that they couldn't find her, and if MI6 couldn't find this place within two days, they weren't going to find it at all.

She was going to die in this basement.


	10. Tragedy Bound

The door at the top of the stairs leading into the basement opened, letting in a shaft of light that was blinding in the dank darkness. A figure was silhouetted in the doorway, and Alex squinted against the light to try and discern its features. Then the figure began to lumber down the stairs, shutting the door behind itself, and a face swam into view.

It was one of the traffickers. From his gait, Alex could tell he was drunk, but in this situation it didn't make him any less dangerous. He was alone, and this was a bad sign. Alex drew her legs in towards herself, unconsciously attempting to make herself as small a target as possible. It wouldn't help.

He loomed over her, grinning at her sickeningly, then jangled the keys to her handcuffs in his hand. She fixated on them – if there was a way to get hold of those…

"You and I, little girl, are going to have some fun," he said, drawing her attention back to him. He bent towards her, then punched her hard in the face. Her head slammed backwards against the radiator. Red lights flashed in front of her eyes, and she had to fight to stay conscious. He took advantage of her incapacity to undo her handcuffs and yank her away from the radiator, leaving her lying face down on the basement floor. Through the haze that clouded her brain, Alex was able to realise that this was her opportunity. It might be her last one.

She pushed herself onto her feet, ran for the stairs… but her legs, after two days motionless, wouldn't fully comply, and the trafficker managed to grasp her hair and pull her backwards, simultaneously lashing out with his foot and swiping her legs from under her. She hit the ground hard, and felt the familiar click of handcuffs around her wrists. The man pulled her to her feet, her hands now cuffed behind her, and pushed her against the back wall of the basement. She could see the stairs and the doorway behind him, escape tantalisingly close and yet unreachable.

His face was inches from hers; close enough to smell the alcohol on his breath.

"You're too much trouble, little girl. I think we'll finish this tonight… just you and me."

He leered at her, then shifted, pressing one arm across her throat to keep her pinned to the wall. The pressure on her windpipe made her head spin and nearly distracted her from what the trafficker was doing with his other hand, which was methodically unbuttoning his fly.

Horror swept over her, but was followed by eerie calm. Her brain threw up random phrases – _the calm before the storm, the calm at the centre of the storm, the eye_… Everything came together at once, and before she'd even consciously made a decision, before she'd even had an _idea_, her left knee was ramming into the man's crotch with as much force as she could muster and he was doubling over and her right leg was swinging up into a kick that caught him full in the chest and he was falling backwards and she was running, running up the stairs, nearly to the door…

And then she felt the trafficker's hand on her ankle, and the world twisted, and the stairs flew upwards towards her. With her hands still cuffed behind her there was no way to break her fall. Her head hit the step in front of her, and her world filled with pure, blinding pain that was quickly replaced by oblivion.


	11. Saint With A Fever

Alex woke to a splitting headache and utter silence. She lay still, gradually becoming more and more aware of the world around her as she rose through the fog of unconsciousness.

She was lying on her back, which was strange, because she remembered falling forwards. Light from the open doorway above her spilled onto her face, shining in her eyes and exacerbating her headache. There was still nothing but silence. Gingerly, she pushed herself up onto her elbows, then froze. The handcuffs were gone.

She sat up sharply, wincing as the movement sent a jolt of pain down her spine. She brought her hands up in front of her, and stared in disbelief at her wrists. Blinking, she looked around, finally spotting the handcuffs on a lower step. Her eyes moved to the bottom of the stairs, where a figure lay prone. _The trafficker_. She didn't need to approach him to tell he was dead. His brains were splattered across the back wall of the basement.

Alex pulled herself to her feet, using the banister as support, then turned and crept up the stairs. The trafficker had come to a bad end, and she did not intend to join him. Whoever had done this could still be in the building. At the top of the stairs, she put her head around the door. There was still nothing but silence. It was too quiet. The corridor the stairs led to was empty. She hesitated briefly, then stepped out into the corridor. There was a door ajar at the far end, and beyond it she could see a window. _Freedom_.

Less worried about being quiet, and more worried about getting out as quickly as possible, she jogged down the corridor, occasionally reaching out a hand to the wall to steady herself. Reaching the door, she paused and listened again. Still nothing. She took a deep breath, and pushed the door open.

The room was littered with bodies. Blood covered most of the floor and walls. Alex stood frozen in the doorway, taking in every aspect of the scene before her. She recognised most of the men as traffickers. There were around ten. Some lay on the floor, others were slumped in chairs. One still clutched a half-consumed glass of vodka. Each had been killed, apparently, by a gunshot wound to the head. One or two had guns in their hands, but most did not. They'd been taken by surprise, by professionals. She hadn't seen an operation like this since Scorpia had been at its height.

She crouched, and pulled a handgun out of the grasp of the body closest to her. It was sticky with semi-congealed blood, but she felt much, much safer with a weapon in her hand. She inched her way across the room, trying not to slip on the blood-coated floor, until she reached the window, pushed it open, and pulled herself through it. She dropped into a small courtyard, and sighed with relief to find that the large metal gate at the entrance to the compound was open.

Giving up any attempt at subtlety, Alex ran towards the gate as quickly as she could, still fighting off bouts of dizziness. As she reached the street outside, adrenaline was finally beginning to kick in, and she felt newly alert, scanning the street and the buildings that faced it for any sign of movement. They were deserted, and the eerie silence that had filled the traffickers' base seemed to have followed her outside. The only sound was that of her own breathing, harsh and shallow.

Finally, she spotted a phone box at the end of the street, and headed towards it, slowing to a stumbling jog as her legs began to protest against the sudden exercise after days of inactivity. Reaching the phone, she picked it up, and was relieved to hear a dial tone. After checking there was still no one around, she balanced the stolen handgun on top of the phone, before dialing the code that would connect her, for free, to MI6. There was a click as the connection was made, and then a single beep. Alex knew this was her cue to talk.

"Alex Rider, access code zero eight alpha whiskey three."

Her voice sounded strange. Rough, and the words seemed somehow slurred. God, she was tired. She lent forwards, resting an arm on the phone, then cleared her throat and continued.

"Requesting extraction at -"

Alex paused, realising she had no idea where she was. She glanced around desperately, finally spotting a street sign on her left, then grimaced at the effort required to read the Cyrillic.

"Requesting extraction at Chuvas'ka street, Lviv."

The only response from MI6 was a long tone. Alex knew this meant her message had been received, and was being acted upon. She hung up, and glanced back down the street. Still nothing. She picked up the gun, and slid to the floor of the phone box to wait.

* * *

Alex didn't know how long she spent in the phone box, but she did know that at some point during the wait she had fallen asleep, because the extraction team, led by Ben Daniels, had to wake her up when they finally arrived.

Ben prised the gun out of her hands and pulled her to her feet.

"You look like shit, Rider."

Four hours and one private jet later, she was in a hospital bed in Prague.


	12. Home For Now

A week later, Alex was finally home. Properly home, in her own house, in her own country, and with two weeks of hard-earned downtime to look forward to. Two weeks of relative solitude too, since Jack had been visiting relatives in the USA when Alex reached the hospital in Prague. Alex had spent an hour on the phone convincing her that no, she didn't need to cut her holiday short, and yes, Alex could take care of herself and the house for a few weeks, and no, Alex wouldn't let herself get murdered before Jack got home.

The MI6 car that had dropped her off drove away as Alex pushed open the front door and stepped into the hallway, bolting the door behind herself. She dropped her bag on the floor and her keys on the table by the door and reflected that it was nice to return to normal for a while, before registering the creak of a floorboard in the kitchen and cursing herself for having mentally jinxed her own holiday.

_You promised Jack you wouldn't get murdered._

The intruder would already have heard her come in, so there wasn't much point in attempting to be stealthy now. She reached down and pulled the handgun MI6 had finally issued her with from her bag, cleared her throat, and called towards the kitchen.

"Come out now, with your hands where I can see them, and I'll consider not killing you."

There was a brief silence, then a familiar voice responded.

"I don't know why I've bothered coming all the way to London and breaking into your freakishly well-secured house if you're not even going to _pretend_ to be pleased to see me."

"David?" Alex replied, preventing herself from following his name with _what the fuck are you doing in my house_, because she'd already been actually quite rude, and because she knew how difficult her house was to break into so could appreciate that he'd evidently made quite an effort.

David stuck his head around the kitchen door, grinning.

"The one and only," he answered, smirking. He was clearly very pleased with himself, and as Alex approached the kitchen she could see why - a bottle of champagne and a bouquet of roses were placed centre stage on the kitchen table. David was still grinning at her, but Alex was bemused.

They didn't really _do_ romance - gun fights, explosions and destroying international terrorist organisations, yes, but not _romance_.

Their relationship had developed from a sort of grudging admiration when they'd first met on Malagosto during Alex's brief defection from MI6, to mutual hatred in the months directly after, followed by a period in which they each simply tolerated the other.

He'd found her in a bar in Munich the week after her sixteenth birthday, told her that he knew how to destroy Scorpia, properly this time, but that he needed her help to do it. The whole mission had taken around six months and had been filled, as Alex's missions generally were, with near-death experiences.

But there had been someone to nearly-die _with_, and that, along with the nights of drinking until 4am, because how else do you respond to having nearly-died, had bonded them in a way nothing else could have.

And when, in the middle of one of those drunken, thank-God-we're-alive nights, David had leaned over and kissed her, Alex had found herself unsurprised. It made her feel more alive than she had in years, and so they'd continued their joint mission with this new secret, their love played out in European nightclubs and cheap hotels, them against the world, unstoppable.

But then he'd faked his own death, and it was all over before they'd even been on a normal date, before they'd even _existed_ together in the real world, away from the spying and guns and danger. And Alex was suddenly uncertain about whether there could even _be_ a them without the rest of that.

And so she found herself standing in her own kitchen completely unsure of how to respond to what was basically a fairly normal romantic gesture.

Luckily, she didn't have to respond, because a few seconds after she stepped into the light of the kitchen the grin slipped off David's face.

"What happened?" He asked, gesturing at the bruises and cuts on her face.

"Oh, this?" Alex grimaced. "Had a bit of an adventure in Uzbekistan."

She certainly wasn't going to tell him what had really happened, because she didn't want to think about it.

Then something clicked in Alex's mind. _She hadn't seen an operation like it since Scorpia had been at its height_. Someone had killed all of those men and left her alive. Someone who'd had very good training - the best, actually. Training like hers.

She narrowed her eyes.

"But you already knew about Uzbekistan, right? I have to say, the romantic gestures are great _now_, but next time, Prince Charming, try _not_ leaving the damsel in distress unconscious on a basement floor."

David just stared at her, mouth slightly open. His eyes flicked to the stitches on her forehead, as though he was wondering whether there might have been some sort of permanent brain damage.

"I - _what_?" He just looked confused.

Alex frowned.

"It wasn't you?"

"_What_ wasn't me? Are you feeling ok?"

Alex shook her head, exasperated.

"In Uzbekistan, I was... in a spot of bother, and - well anyway, I woke up, and someone had killed _everyone else in the building_. And I haven't seen shooting like it since - well, since Scorpia."

"So, you thought..."

Alex shrugged.

"It made sense, for a second. I've been trying to work this out for a few days now, and I'm getting nowhere."

David gave her a sharp look.

"You said it looked like Scorpia?"

Alex nodded tiredly.

"Yes - at least, it was their style."

His eyes were still on her face, but she could see that he was no longer concentrating on her - he was turning over this new problem in his mind. Then he snapped out of his reverie.

"I have to go."

"You're leaving? But -"

He cut her off, shaking his head.

"No, it's just I've forgotten this... thing I had to do."

Alex nodded.

"Uh-huh. You should really try to improve those acting skills. That was shocking, I mean, _really_..."

David laughed.

"Whatever. Besides, you think I'm _charming_."

Alex opened her mouth to protest, but David interrupted.

"Nope, I _distinctly_ heard you say charming. Must be doing something right."

"Well, that was when I thought you'd sort of saved my life, so I think I might retract the whole _charming_ thing."

David sighed.

"Ah, well. You've never been a very good damsel in distress anyway."

He headed towards the back door.

"I'll be back in about half an hour, ok?"

Alex shrugged, but failed to keep a straight face.

"Fine. Not like I can stop you getting in here anyway, apparently."

"That's me. Persistent, if nothing else."

He stepped out of the door into the garden, then turned and popped his head back inside, serious again.

"Alex?"

"Yeah?"

"I wouldn't have left you behind."

He was gone before she had time to respond. She looked down at the roses on the table and smiled, then shook her head.

_What the hell are you doing?_


End file.
